Soulmates
by Warrior of Ice
Summary: As war approaches, the chosen ten must confront a mad queen, a quest for the crystals, and each other in order to rebuild the kingdoms of legend. senshi/Shitennou, U/M
1. The Prophecy

_Prologue_

For many ages, five ruling lines reigned in peace on the eastern side of the Ausonan Divide. Two of these were human and three Folk, and they existed in relative harmony with one another as rulers enlightened, tyrannical, or benevolently neglectful rose and fell. Numberless alliances and rivalries were formed and broken as the bitter enmity of some generations replaced or was replaced by warm comradeship.

As the years passed, however, the balance of power began to shift. More and more of the central woodlands disappeared, to be burnt as firewood or shaped by craftsman to serve people's needs, and crops and villages took their place. One of the three subgroups of the Folk split as a result, with the dryads taking up residence in what became the Great Northern Forest while their elfin cousins ruled over the Great Southern Forest. The influence and numbers of all the Folk began to recede despite their possession of what the humans called "magik," which included such abilities as seeing the future, casting light, and controlling the elements.

No one knew why this happened. It was suggested that the loss of the woodlands diminished the powers of the dryads and the elves, but nothing was disturbing either the ocean habitats of the naiads or the dwellings of the land nymphs. A popular myth arose that both magik and the peace of the land alike were dependent on a magikal artifact, which was then in the possession of the Folk, and upon the disappearance of the object, chaos would descend.

* * *

The human Houses, Zurielis and Devine, rose to prominence, and only the nymphs retained their high standing due to their skill at manipulating glass and metals. The naiad and dryad peoples retreated further into their respective domains, and few traveled outside of their lands willingly. Far to the south, these Folk were the first to become regarded as legends by the humans. As for the elves, what few palaces they had remained airy confections of the most delicate construction, so insubstantial that they appeared to be made of nothing more than lacy woodwork held together by fragile flower vines, while the elves themselves became increasingly martial. 

House Zurielis itself was somewhat more tolerant of the magik folk, due to a number of alliances forged in the past few centuries that had led to the rise of a special type of magik in the ruling family as a result of several of their line marrying Folk. However, their people were mostly without magik, and they were the ones who saw and experienced the disastrous effects of hostile encounters with the Folk. Humans' brushes with the Folk bred fear and hatred, for the more peaceable Folk began to disappear from the human realms while their last great fighters inflicted great damage with their magik.

* * *

The kings and queens of House Devine and House Zurielis soon came to see that it would be to their advantage to eliminate the other and become the sole rulers of all the land stretching between the ocean and the Ausonan Divide, as few of the Folk seemed suited to pose any threat. The Devines coveted the exotic trade the Zurielises carried on with their neighbors over the Divide and desired to expand over the mountains, while the landlocked Zurielises sought more arable land. 

While the Devines built up their armies and navies, the Zurielises, who ruled the mountainous western portion of the territory, revived the old tradition of signing treaties with the Folk. In exchange for their aid and magik, the Zurielis monarchs promised that their people would leave the Folk in peace. To win over the more reluctant Folk, they swore the oath of their patron goddess, the warrior goddess Valencia: that if they broke their promise, their line would be cursed to lose all the future battles it fought. Seeing that this was possibly their last chance to make a comeback, all four Folk kingdoms sent their troops to fight, weighting the balance heavily in House Zurielis's favor.

The Devines grow more and more desperate as the Zurielises pushed eastward from the mountains. They captured Folk warriors, some of whom defected to their side, swore oaths of loyalty to House Devine, and became the forerunners of the pet mages of the court. Those fighters who refused to renounce their people and managed to linger for a time in their enemies' dungeons were to see greater sorrows. Poisons targeting the Folk were created through the cooperation of the most gifted herbalists and alchemists among the Devines and the captive and traitor Folk mages. Those Folk who consumed the poison or were wounded by a poison-tipped weapon soon lost their powers and eventually their lives.

And so the tide of war flowed to favor the Devines. As huge numbers of their people lay dying, the Folk withdrew from the war, leeching numbers and magik from the Zurielises. The royal line of House Zurielis was slowly eradicated as its members perished in battle or went into hiding, to be hunted down and executed in the aftermath of the war. Thus did House Devine triumph throughout the lands, unchallenged by humans and Folk alike.

* * *

For over three centuries, the Devines ruled unchallenged, with no indication that their ancient rivals would emerge to trouble them again. However, humans began to rethink the legends and night-stories they told to young children. In the south and the most remote areas of the north, the Folk were seen to walk among the humans again. 

Scholars and storytellers began to whisper of an old prophecy, rumored to have been revealed by one of the very last Zurielis princes. The gift of foresight had run strong in House Zurielis in former times, and the restoration of the Zurielis line and the royal houses of the Folk had been foretold. Those few who knew of the prophecy, long kept silent by the Devines, took the renewed presence of the Folk among them as a sign of promise. They believed that the time for the prophecy's fulfillment had come.

* * *


	2. Prologue: Voices from the Past

Dedication: For Misfit Dragon and all the wonderful, patient readers out there who loved this one best. Thanks always for reading.

AN: Eventually I'm going to need to go back and fix the first chapter since the time scale has changed, but for now I'm forging onwards. The prologue is six scenes from the past; the next chapter will continue from present time.

Prologue: Voices from the Past

The night air was still balmy in the south. Malina was opening all of her bedroom windows in an attempt to coax in the last summery breezes. A struggle with a particularly stubborn catch resulted in several irate curses and a broken fingernail, which she was nursing in the window seat when a soft whistle caught her attention. The wind ruffled the wealth of hair loose around her shoulders as she bounded up to lean precariously out of the window embrasure in search of the whistler.

"Right here," an amused voice spoke helpfully into her ear.

She drew back with a startled cry, which was cut off by a yelp of pain when the side of her head made contact with someone's nose. While her rooms were on the ground floor, she hadn't expected anyone to be standing right outside, especially at this hour of the night. The windows were some distance from the ground, but her tall friend's head just cleared the sill.

"Nath, you blockhead, what are you doing?" she hissed, rubbing her ear while glancing around furtively in hopes that no one else had heard them.

The youth standing at her window glared at her balefully. "_I'm_ the blockhead? Judging from our recent close encounter, your skull appears to have been carved from a block, all right – one of adamant. I'm surprised my nose isn't broken," he retorted, his words muffled because his hand was still clasped over the injured appendage.

Malina's hand dropped away from her ear instantly. She lifted her chin and ordered, "Take it like a man and stop whining, Nathair."

She giggled as he gaped at her in the most unattractive manner possible. He rallied quickly, however. "That's something, coming from your ladyship. I'm surprised you didn't wake the entire household with your squeals."

"I do not squeal! Pigs and boars squeal – and so did Lady Elin when we spilled the entire keg of rosewine on her dress – but not me. Don't be such a boor!"

Nathair rolled his eyes. "Then stop wasting time. I've been waiting for weeks for such a perfect night, and I refuse to let you ruin it."

Malina had not the faintest idea what he was referring to, but she decided to continue baiting him in revenge for the squealing comment and for surprising her. "What's going on? Have you finally come to your senses and decided to make everyone's greatest fears come true by convincing me to run away with you?" she asked soulfully, fluttering her long eyelashes at him.

"For that to happen, I would need to _lose_ my senses, not come to them," he said dryly. "No, while I'm still in full possession of my faculties – which, by the way, is a true miracle, considering my seven years' acquaintance with you – I'm afraid we'll have to continue disappointing those vulgar court gossips and their sordid notions. It gives me a perverse sort of pleasure. Now come on!"

"Where are we going, exactly?"

"Stargazing! Remember? You said you wanted to go together, just like we did when we were younger. Only you've been busy all summer with those stultifying all-night court functions. It's our last night at the Summer Palace, there are no clouds to speak of, and here you are, dragging your heels and making my life a misery, as always." As she sprang to her feet, Nath added, "Bring your cloak or a shawl or something; it's getting cool."

"Don't be such a nanny, Nath. It's the last warm night of the season!"

He shook his head, foreseeing that he would be divested of his cloak in the near future. "Just remember you said that when I say 'I told you so.'"

No longer listening to him, Malina positioned herself so she was sitting in the open window. "Don't drop me, now. We don't want to wake anyone up."

"Oh, gods. Remember what happened the last time we did this?" Nathair hissed, holding out his arms and bracing himself hurriedly.

It was clear that her already-tall friend was going to be taller yet when he reached his full growth. At the moment, he hadn't filled out yet and his build tended more towards lean and lanky than solid. "If you would just gain some more muscle…"

"You mean, if you would just lose some more weight," he replied acidly. "Oof!" The breath escaped him as he bent his knees to absorb the impact of her landing in his outstretched arms. "You know, this wouldn't be necessary if you were better at sneaking outside."

When her feet hit the sand, she gave him her most condescending look. "Remember who you're talking to, Nathair Sidereal. When we first met, you couldn't sneak past a blind person."

"Now, that's completely unfair. You know he wasn't really blind; he was just pretending to be –"

Nathair's heated defense was cut short when she said, "Race you to the starwatching rock – last one there has to play a trick on my mother tomorrow!"

* * *

From the highest balcony, the revelers resembled autumn leaves being wafted across the grass in elegant spirals, continuously in motion. The elves were fond of green and brown, and it was the custom to wear hues befitting the season. At this time, brilliant scarlet, yellow, and orange gowns and robes dotted the crowd of those dressed in more conservative shades, although those who could wear orange tastefully were few and far between. Light globes grouped like clusters of grapes hung from delicate, winding chains shaped like vines or were placed singly at random intervals along the walls. They illuminated the room with a white light softer than the ubiquitous glitter of jewels and precious metals adorning necks, hair, fingers, wrists, and waists.

Queensfern, five-pointed dreamflowers, and marbled rissaria, all autumn-blooming flowers, filled every alcove and perfumed the air with spicy, aromatic scents. Ameliya compared these colorful blooms to the ones found in the underwater kingdoms of the naiads, paler flowers with subtler fragrances, and continued to marvel at the differences between the elves' dwellings and her home. She hailed from the north, where the naiads and their closer cousins, the dryads that inhabited the Great Northern Forest, were accustomed to different forms of ornamentation of bodies and clothes than their southern cousins.

Thus far, her exposure to the southern court had been fairly limited – from necessity, she had been presented to the king, and she was glad it need happen only once. All she recalled from that encounter was feeling very cold, the ringing in her ears, and the very green eyes of the king before she retreated behind the last ranks of the naiad delegation. As one of the strongest healers to be born in the past decade, she had been sent to the Great Southern Forest to further her training by learning techniques which were not taught or currently unknown among the naiads. Her time was spent among the healers and scholars, not at court festivities, but tonight her absence would have been unacceptable. Tonight they celebrated the young prince's name day.

That meant excruciatingly formal clothing, beautiful music, and unparalleled culinary delicacies. The only one of those she truly appreciated was the music, which was difficult to hear from her perch. Jalen Eridian, the king's ward and the prince's closest companion, had kept her company for a time, but his duties had soon summoned him away. He had promised to return, but the return seemed a long time in coming. Ameliya decided to pass the wait by examining the architecture of the ballroom and trying to estimate the proportions allowing for the existence of delicate galleries and balconies that seemed to float in midair with minimal structural support.

Completely engrossed with the figures she traced out with a slender finger, she didn't realize that she was talking aloud until an amused voice interjected, "It's fourteen units by twenty-three and not twenty-two, actually."

She spun around. When her eyes met the prince's, her gaze dropped to the floor and she sank into a curtsey. "Good evening, your highness."

He took her free hand boldly, drawing her towards him and out of her curtsey. "Good evening, Ameliya."

For once, she knew what to say in his confusing presence. "I wish you well on your name day, your highness."

"Thank you," he said, his grave tone belying the mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "I think it's a fine name myself. It would please me greatly if you were to use it."

Ami flushed. It was a great honor to address the prince by his given name, but she wasn't sure that it was one she wanted.

"And are you familiar with our custom?" Zaccheus continued blithely.

"Custom?"

"Yes. You see, on the prince's name day, it's customary for him to receive a kiss from every woman in the room. For luck, of course."

She glanced at him warily from under her dark lashes. "I don't seem to recall reading about that particular custom, my lord."

"Oh, well, one need not write down custom when it is so well known," he answered airily.

Her heartbeat sounded in her ears, so loudly she wondered if he heard it. Kisses and physical affection in general were given much more freely here. She had seen at least twelve women kiss him on the lips before he had come up behind her - not that she had been keeping track. But among the naiads, a kiss in public could be as good as a betrothal.

"It's considered very auspicious. Particularly if he receives the kiss at the stroke of his birth hour. Which happens to be now." His gaze was both expectant and challenging.

"Very well, if I must." She did her utmost to sound both indifferent and bored, which would serve him right for teasing her. She was sure he was lying. Mostly. But it wasn't as if she could stop to ask someone.

Nothing had been in his mind besides a casual baiting of this girl who seemed so immune to his charms, but a new awareness spread over him as she moved closer. She smelled of gardenias and a freshness that reminded him of the first, cleansing snowfall of the year or a cool drink of water. Zaccheus could have sworn he was rooted to the spot, but just as her lips neared his right cheek, a raucous shout of his name from below triggered an instinctual turn of the head.

Her lips brushed his left cheek for just an instant, and they froze. Young as he was, Zaccheus was used to flirtations and kisses that promised more than this, yet somehow, they seemed to mean much less.

He cleared his throat, not seeing how stricken she looked. "Thank you kindly, my lady," he said. "Duty calls – may I claim a dance later?" He left without waiting for her response, clattering into Jalen, who stood motionless on the top stair, on his way down.

Ami gripped the railing with her fingers, unsure that her suddenly shaky legs were enough to keep her upright. The old verse ran insistently through her head, softer than a whisper and louder than a curse:

_The right cheek is for friendship,_

_And the left one is for love_

_Thus do I declare myself_

_To thee and all the stars above._

* * *

It was shortly after midday when a crowd of children and apprentices gathered behind the carpenter's shop to watch with great interest as two young men faced off in the packed earth court. One combatant was the apothecary's dark-haired apprentice, generally acknowledged to be the best-looking young man in their section of town by the local girls. His opponent was a fair-haired youth with pleasant features who had arrived in palace livery but quickly stripped off his tunic and shirt, to the admiration of the young women passing by.

The pair were oblivious to their audience: Darrian never paid much attention to the girls, while Andrew, who had a reputation as a charmer, was preoccupied with preventing Darrian from landing too many blows on him. Although he was young, Darrian was one of the most skilled fighters in the Resistance and kept his sparring partners on their toes. While Andrew was occupied in blocking a punch aimed at his jaw, Darrian's foot snaked out to hook around the blond youth's ankle and dump him on the ground.

Andrew indulged in a brief moment of self-congratulation for having seen and evaded the maneuver but was rapidly thrown off guard again when Darrian switched his leading foot and came at him again. Trying to keep his gaze in the right place while fumbling to reposition his own feet, Andrew failed to block the next kick and went flying. The spectators scattered as he flung out his arms to blunt the impact of his fall. He landed with a grunt and lay there, semi-stunned, until Darrian's shadow fell over him.

Andrew sighed heavily, slowly moving one of his dusty hands to shade his eyes from the sun as he peered upwards. From this perspective, his friend's eyes were the inky color of the queen's darkest sapphires. Trying to regain his breath, he panted, "Why is it – that you've hardly broken a sweat – while I feel like I ran up and down all the palace staircases – at least a dozen times?"

"You can't get caught off-guard when I do something like that," Darrian replied, although a smirk hovered on the side of his mouth.

"I still landed properly," Andrew pointed out, pushing himself up with a sigh.

"Perhaps, but if we had replaced my foot with, say, a sword or a dagger?"

He winced at the thought. By that evening or the next morning, bruises would be spreading over his ribs, even though he knew that Darrian had held back during the fight. "All right, I'll work on it," he grumbled.

As he headed for his clothing and boots, which had been discarded by the sidelines, Darrian followed him, dragging on his own shirt and tunic in the meantime. "You're doing well, and I can tell you've been practicing. It might not feel like it, but you're getting better. Honestly."

Andrew smiled at him, an eyebrow half raised in skepticism but appreciating the words nonetheless.

"I mean it."

"You're harder on me than you are on Neith and Callum," he pointed out.

Darrian glanced around as their audience dispersed, nodding to one or two others he trained with. Keeping his voice low, he replied, "I know. I'm hard on everyone because we have to be good. But I'm harder on you because you'll stick with it and they won't, and I want you alive at the end of the war."

The hairs on the back of Andrew's neck prickled, and he rubbed it briskly, pretending he was wiping away sweat. "Do you really think it'll come to that?" he asked, barely audible. "A war?"

Darrian looked back at him levelly. He knew what Andrew and many of the other youths thought, and how they viewed the training as useful because it built up their muscles, impressed the girls, and was generally a fun if somewhat painful way to work out their frustrations. Being part of the Resistance was thrilling and a novelty, but for the most part, they failed to seriously consider the possibility of war they were training for and the consequences it held for the land and the people. "Yes. I think so. I know so."

"What makes you so sure?" Andrew asked as they walked back indoors and Darrian took up his belongings again, looking more like a handsome but harmless apprentice rather than a lethal fighter who had spent a good part of his youth on the roughest streets of Cassiri.

"The night that Serenitatis Devine was born, a star fell from the sky, and a brighter one took its place. The soothsayers read it as a sign, and I take it as a promise. So work on your footwork, Andrew."

* * *

Reisha woke before the mountaintop was kissed by the first rays of daylight. As a young child, she had begun meditating with Father Orran, who found it a useful way to calm the lost and tempestuous child who had been left in the care of the brothers and sisters of the monastery. Now she usually meditated alone.

When she finished, she plucked her everyday cloak from its hook, pausing to give the fancy, fur-lined one next to it her customary sneer. She was rarely cold, even though the monastery was perched in the realm's highest mountain range, but it was best to keep up appearances. As she tugged the worn brown wool into place under her chin, she quickened her steps to hasten the approach of the happiest part of her day.

The mews were old but well-maintained, located far from the sleeping quarters so the hawks would be undisturbed by human activity. She hurried to the corner where their newest resident slept. It was awake, and watched her approach with close and unwavering attention. She was delighted by its alertness and the clarity of its eyes, the restless way it ruffled the feathers along its neck.

Waiting on Father Orran, she started her first chore of the day, which was sweeping up the refuse, down, and feathers littering the floor. She had nearly finished when his familiar, stooped figure entered the room.

"Good morning, Reisha."

"Good morning, Grandfather."

The wide smile creased his aged brown face in the way she loved most. "And how is our friend today? Ready for her freedom?"

"Yes, I think so."

She stepped back to give him space to work with the wild creature, watching as he carefully examined their recovering patient. Most of the other hawks here had been tamed long ago or bred in the mews. This one had been found with an injured wing just outside the walls, and brought in to see if Father Orran, who was known to have a gift with wild animals, could heal her. Reisha sometimes helped him with other injured animals, but of them all, she loved the hawks the most. This one, like many others they had found over the years, was ready to be released to resume its life outside the walls today.

She watched him go over the hawk carefully, his hands bare in spite of the powerful, hooked beak and sharp talons. If there were others present, he would have used the gloves, as she always did, but when it was only the two of them, he kept his hands ungloved. Rei had never seen him savaged by any animal, and it often seemed like they preferred the touch of his bare hands.

Shortly after her ninth name day, she had helped him care for a motherless wolf cub.

_Very deliberately, Father Orran stripped off his gloves, his brown eyes holding Rei's for a long moment before he reached for the cub's front paw. It dangled at an odd angle, and the cub had snarled and snapped at anyone who approached – except for Father Orran, of course. He completed the entire exacting procedure without receiving a scratch and without donning the gloves. Throughout the whole process, a pearly glow suffused his hands._

_Just before they blew out the candles and left the cub to rest in the dark, he put his hand, no longer glowing, on her shoulder. "Everyone here keeps your secrets. Perhaps you would like to keep one of mine," he said to her gently._

Soon after that, she began calling him her grandfather. It helped cement her disguise, and the affection in her heart rendered it truth.

As she drew herself out of her memories, Father Orran looked up, his eyes crinkled with pleasure and nearly buried in the folds of laugh lines that had accumulated over the years. "I do believe you're right, my dear. It's time we sent her on her way. Thanks to your help, I think she'll do very well."

She smiled at the praise as she replaced the well-worn broom in its corner. "You mean _your_ help," she corrected scrupulously. "I merely assisted you."

"Perhaps. And sometimes, it is the handmaidens of the gods who are even more beloved than the gods themselves." He rose to his feet with a spryness that belied his years and handed her the cage. "Shall we?"

They left the mews, an odd but harmonious pair. His eyes and skin were a nut brown color, and his bald head barely reached her shoulder. Reisha's coarse brown cloak only made the long, silken mantle of her hair more striking, and the purple of her eyes rivaled that of the mountains.

When they reached a section of the wall that was somewhat sheltered from the icy breezes but unencumbered by branches, Reisha set the cage carefully into a notch and turned to her companion expectantly.

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

She stared at him, happiness and astonishment warring inside of her. "You mean – you're going to let me set her free?"

He nodded. "Yes. Have you put your gloves on?" he asked with a wink.

She still had them on, but pretended to check their fit a second time. Finally, she prepared herself to open the door and reach in to retrieve the hawk, which was more restless outdoors than in the mews. It was heavier than it looked, something she was expecting since she was used to handling the other hawks. As she raised her fist, she met its piercing yellow stare for a moment before the talons tightened their grip and the hawk launched herself into air. As she spiraled away, her feathers just touched with the light of the dawning sun, she took Rei's breath away as she vanished into the distance.

Father Orran watched until her joy could no longer balance out the wistfulness on her face. "Kassian comes today, for tomorrow is your name day."

As he expected, Reisha turned to him with a lovely smile curving her lips and a flush in her pale cheeks. Out of all her father's deputies, they saw Kassian most often – notably on her name days, with an armful of rare hothouse lilies that soon withered in the cold mountain climate. He hoped she realized in time that the young man, while handsome, would give her lilies but not one of his secrets, and make none of hers lighter to bear.

* * *

The moon shone brightly on the small figure on the carpet, who counted stars with eyes bluer than hyacinths. She had tucked her toes under the pool of her silken white nightdress and wiggled them periodically to stave off the night's frosty breath.

"That one for Kent, so he does well in the practice courts tomorrow, and this one for Mistress Analis, and this one for Melly, so she feels better soon," she said, naming her brother, her governess, and the young, red-haired chambermaid who was getting over a fever. She was happy the skies were spangled with so many twinkling stars that night, since she had ever so many people to get through. A whole palace-full, in fact – everyone from the chamberlain and his grandmother to the newest stableboy, who had a cowlick and could whistle through the gap in his teeth.

She was so caught up in finding just the right star for this intriguing young person that she didn't notice the door easing open until a quiet voice spoke in the darkened room.

"What are you doing out of bed?"

The guilty look on her face hid none of her delight in seeing him. "Oh, Kent! I'm counting stars. I've never seen so many before – aren't they pretty?"

"As pretty as those roses that bloomed today?"

"Well, just as pretty. But different."

"I see." He smiled as he rummaged in her wardrobe and pulled out the first pair of stockings he came across. They happened to be her thickest woolen ones meant to be worn outdoors in the dead of winter, but Seren drew them on without complaint as he lowered himself onto the ground beside her. Once she was done, she scooted over so more of his larger frame could fit on the rug.

"Was the party fun?" she asked wistfully, wishing her bedtime were later so she could join the revelries. In her mind, they were filled with iced cakes and dancing, flowers and filmy dresses.  
Kentan had never told her how much he hated those affairs, and he didn't want to think of sugared voices and hidden traps, heavy perfumes and false smiles in his sister's room. "It was all right," he said vaguely.

She leaned against his warm shoulder, breathing in the scent of peppermint and cool stone that seemed to follow him around. Overlying it was a hint of the light sweat he had worked up in fulfilling his duties on the ballroom floor.

"Do you think Mother will let me go to the next one?" she asked sleepily.

He put his arm around her. "Hm. Probably not, but it will be your name day soon. Then there will be a party in your honor."

Seren sighed. "But that's in two months. That's not soon; it's _ages_ away."

He said nothing, waiting for her to recover her cheerful mood. While the young princess was prone to whining, her fits of sulks tended to be shorter around him.

"Will you go riding with me tomorrow?"

"If you're up before noon, I might be able to."

"I don't sleep that late! As if Mistress Analis would let me."

"Shh. We'll see, then. But it's time and past for you to be asleep, Seren."

Leaving her view of the stars behind, she wiggled out of her stockings and back into bed. As Kent shoved them back in the wardrobe, he glanced around the room to make sure nothing else was out of place.

"Will you stay until I fall asleep?"

The corners of his mouth quirked upwards again. "Aren't you getting a bit old to be afraid of the night-demons?"

The way she drew the covers more tightly around her told him she wasn't. "Of course I am," she said defensively. "But I see so little of you now that I don't want to let you go yet."

"I miss you, too." It was why he came to see her now, even though the ball had ended late and he had to be up at first light the next day. And so he sat in the too-small chair beside her bed until her lashes fluttered closed, and stayed closed, and counted each of the precious breaths she breathed until he was sure she had slid safely into dreams.

* * *

"I bet I'm faster than you are."

Eyes as green as the swaying summer foliage around them narrowed. Their friendship could withstand a few punches straight to the gut, especially if they were well-deserved…but no. Best to beat him in this contest so they would always know the score. "Are not."

"Then prove it."

They always started from this tree, the oldest oak in the forest that had been the provider of hundreds of bushels of acorns, served as nursery to generations of squirrels, and was the source of the most beautiful ochre leaves in the fall. It would have taken three each of Kenan and Lyta, extending their arms to the fullest span, to circle its massive trunk.

Kenan cleared the distance from ground to branch with a single jump, and Lyta followed him wordlessly, knowing better than to waste her breath calling him on the head start. He ran the full length of the first branch, then leaped to the next, loping through this level of the forest as easily as he ran on the ground. He moved through the thickly-leafed maze, his torso tanned as brown as the tree trunks and his legs clad in trousers of nearly the same shade, so fast that he became a blur.

But she was fast, too, and they had been running this course since they were scarcely out of the cradle. With the help of a tough vine, Lyta swung herself onto a parallel path, pushing herself in an effort to overtake him. Her steps were quick and fast, and the leaves dislodged by their panting breaths and moving arms drifted slowly to the forest floor in their wake.

He made it to the edge of the woods before she did and dropped down from the branches, taking in great gulps of air. Lyta shimmied down the last trunk to land ankle-deep in last autumn's leaves.

"Good run," she said, trying not to sound too disgruntled.

Kenan grinned, exultant but not smug.

"Race you back?" she asked hopefully.

He shook his head. "Don't think you're getting out of doing my chores."

"I'm not!"

A glistening ray of sunlight slid over the pattern of spiraling vines tattooed on her arms as she raised them to remove the twigs and leaves caught in her hair. Two loud barks stopped her in mid-motion. Kenan sprang to his feet, and instinctively, they moved closer together.

A trio of hounds, nearly shoulder-high to the young dryads, emerged from the rustling grass. They were followed by two men who were armed to the teeth.

"It's poachers! Get into the trees," Kenan ordered, seizing her by the waist and tossing her up into the safety of the branches. She whistled the alarm shrilly, knowing it would carry to the closest patrol – all the trees in the forest were linked, and none other than the dryads could read their sighs and whispers. He sprang up to follow her, only to be dragged ignominiously back to the ground when the first dog sank his teeth into his ankle.

"Kenan!"

"Lyta, _run_!" he shouted, but his cry of pain as his body disappeared under two furry bodies sounded louder in her ears.

The men had reached the forest's edge, and the flashing steel of their blades made her shudder. She was half their size, but she knew the trees well, and how to draw on their strength. She leaped to a lower branch and seized the one above her with both hands, letting her weight drag it back as far as it would go before she kicked her feet off the their perch and swung them hard into the first man's back. He sprawled over the tree roots with a mouthful of grit while she landed on her feet.

His partner and the third hound advanced on her, both snarling angrily, and she backed up, her hand scrabbling behind her to feel for the smooth rasp of the closest tree against her palm. As the third hound leapt for her, three wooden arrows thudded into its ribs, and a web of roots lashed free of the ground to entangle the men.

Lyta didn't see what happened to the other two dogs, but as she ran to Kenan, she knew that he lay still and pale, whiter than moonflowers under his tan. Three of the dryad patrol came over to them, and for once, Lyta didn't argue when she was lifted up into strong arms. The other two supported Kenan between them, and melted swiftly into the woods. She clung to her mother as they followed the darkening path back to the old oak tree, weeping quietly into soft brown curls.

"Be well," she whispered, "please be well."


End file.
